


Pink Eye

by DrFish



Series: Caring John Short Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Caring John, Doctor John Watson, Eyes, M/M, Sick Character, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFish/pseuds/DrFish
Summary: Sherlock has an eye infection, but of course, it's not so simple.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Caring John Short Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927600
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	Pink Eye

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story on a whim because I had an eye infection and we happened to watch that episode of "Bob's Burgers" where Gale got pink eye because she let her cat sleep on her face, and because she's Gale she needs Linda's help with the eye drops. The name of the episode was "The Ring (But Not Scary)" in Season 10.
> 
> After completing this story, I realized many of the elements are similar to  
> [Beauty From Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054684/chapters/27297930) by [BakerTumblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings). I highly recommend reading that story- it has a wonderful plot, complex character development, medical realism, and a lot of feels. It's one of my all-time Sherlock fanfic favorites!

It was Sunday morning, going past 8 o'clock, and John was just opening his eyes to the subdued sunlight filtering past the curtains of his bedroom window upstairs at Baker Street. Despite usually being an early riser, he had worked the past 5 days in a row at the clinic and he was ready for a few days off and a little extra rest.

John met and moved in with Sherlock 6 months ago and the two had become fast friends. John was learning the man's many eccentricities and he was thankful for the companionship. Even if Sherlock played the violin in the middle of the night and didn't speak for days on end (and occasionally went days where he seemed to speak non-stop), John was enjoying their unique life together. John didn't have other friends, and Sherlock was reluctant to "socialize" with other people unless he wanted something, so the pair often spent much of their time together, either on cases or simply at home. 

Sherlock was shy and socially awkward, yet John could tell he cared for people, as often evidenced by his willingness to take on cases for private clients, even when they were boring. He was extremely intelligent and quick witted, John never tired of hearing him rattle off his deductions at crime scenes. Sherlock presented himself as cocky and self-assured, but John quickly realized the man actually craved attention and validation, which he accepted from John. John was happy to provide what Sherlock needed, showering him with praise and quiet smiles when appropriate, which was often. 

Sherlock never talked about his family or his past. Beyond Mycroft, John knew nothing of the people or events of his mad flatmate's early life. John was a medical man, he saw the signs that Sherlock had a history of drug abuse and likely other traumas. They never talked about it, and Sherlock had been sober and apparently healthy since John moved into Baker Street.

On this lazy Sunday morning, John lay in bed listening carefully for the sounds of Sherlock downstairs in the kitchen. This morning he must have been doing something with the microwave. John heard the timer beep, then Sherlock popping the door open, then sometime later the beep again. The air was beginning to take on a not-terribly-unpleasant smell similar to chicken soup, but the scent was undoubtedly being generated by something far less edible. 

The noise from the kitchen had quieted by the time John finally got out of bed. He came downstairs and glanced over at Sherlock hunched over his dissecting scope at the kitchen table. Without a word, John continued to the bathroom to perform his morning routine then returned to his room to dress. When he came down the stairs for the second time, fully dressed and ready for the day, Sherlock was still at the scope.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John said as he filled the kettle for tea.

Sherlock replied with a quiet and simple "good morning." 

John turned and leaned on the counter while he waited for the water to boil. He tried not to stare at his attractive flatmate too often, it wasn't exactly typical behavior, but Sherlock seemed so engrossed in his work he was unlikely to notice. Sherlock was dressed in black trousers and a silk navy blue shirt that was straining at the buttons across his narrow chest. His black curly hair fell over his forehead, a stark contrast to the flawless, pale skin underneath. Sherlock had beautiful eyes: green and blue, with flecks of darker pigment mixed in. The sharpness of his cheekbones, gauntness of his face, and delightful upturned nose gave him an aristocratic air that John just loved to admire.

"Breakfast, yet?" John asked as the kettle boiled and he set about making them both tea. 

"mmm.. no.. thank you."

John brought two mugs to the table, placed one by Sherlock, then sat down in the chair opposite, setting his own tea down and reaching for the newspaper. He noticed, of course, that Sherlock always brought the paper up for John to read, even on days he was far too busy to do much else.

John browsed the paper, thinking about what to make for breakfast, but kept an eye on Sherlock because he was a little curious. Sherlock usually engaged with John a bit more than this in the mornings and he was often excited to talk about his work, but not today. 

A few moments ticked by before Sherlock glanced up at him, briefly making eye contact before quickly returning his attention back to the view through the dissecting scope. John had noticed it though, the white of Sherlock right eye was not so white. Red vessels stood out against the pinkened cornea.

"Sherlock, is your eye bothering you at all today?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, not really. Just a little red today. Must have got something in it." Sherlock continued to stare into the scope.

"May I see?" John asked as he rose from his chair and circled the table. He stood next to Sherlock's right side, noticing the man was reluctant to turn and face him. When he did, John leaned down to be at Sherlock's level, and without touching, he examined the irritated eye. It was indeed very pink, with some crusty discharge at the tear duct. His other eye looked fine.

"How's it feel?"

Sherlock turned back to his work. "Alright. A little warm. Scratchy. I'm sure it will pass."

"I've seen a lot of bacterial pink eye lately, Sherlock. That certainly looks like an infection. No worries, I'll get you some antibiotic eye drops and it'll be cleared up in no time."

John's back was turned so he didn't see the brief flash of anxiety in Sherlock's eyes when he glanced up as John went to make something for breakfast. 

*****

John had to run out to do the shopping, so he picked up the prescription erythromycin eye drops that Sarah, his colleague at the clinic, had called in for Sherlock. When he got home, Sherlock was back at the microwave, preparing another batch of samples to examine under the dissecting scope.

"Here you go," John said placing the small white bag on the table, "one drop in that eye every few hours for 10 days."

Sherlock gave a non-committal hum, he was clearly engrossed in his experiment.

"I mean it, Sherlock, the sooner you get those drops in the sooner it will go away. And keep using the drops, even if it clears up, or else it may come back worse."

Sherlock waved him away. John sighed. The simplest things with Sherlock could be unnecessarily complex. Oh, well, he was a grown man, John reasoned, it wasn't his place to micromanage his flatmate. John put away the groceries and continued his day.

*****

As usual, Sherlock was already up the next morning when John came down from his room. He was lying on the couch still in his pajamas reading one of John's medical journals. A brief word of good morning, two cups of tea, and when John went to sit in his chair and read the newspaper, he caught sight of Sherlock's eye. It was worse than the day before.

John clenched his jaw. The caring side of John was gnawing at him to address this. _How's your eye, today?_ Probably not direct enough. Also, from the swelling around the lid John could tell it wasn't good, so that was an "obvious" question that he shouldn't bother with. Better cut to the chase. _Did you use the eye drops?_ was more like it, but, again, obvious, John knew the answer was no. He was irritated that Sherlock was so blasé about his health. Just a little effort. So many people the world over didn't have access to any healthcare. Sherlock had a live-in doctor. The problem had been diagnosed and the medication delivered, just inches away, and Sherlock did nothing. John regarded Sherlock, reclined on the couch and pretending to read, obviously aware of John's scrutiny.

John sighed and rose from his chair, heading towards the kitchen. He looked around, the eyedrops were not on the kitchen table, or elsewhere. "Sherlock, where are the eye drops?" he asked. 

Sherlock swallowed. He hesitated. "John, it's probably viral, I'd like to wait and see if it goes away on its own."

"Answer my question. Where are the drops?" John repeated.

After a short pause, Sherlock must have decided it would be easier to just answer. "In my room, bookshelf by the window, second shelf from the top."

John went to Sherlock's room, retrieved the small box with the drops inside, and stopped by the bathroom to wash his hands. He grabbed a tissue and returned to sit on the coffee table facing Sherlock where he lay on the couch.

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John removed the bottle, still sealed, from the small box. 

"You've done this before, yeah?"

John locked eyes with his flatmate. Sherlock sat still, the journal forgotten in his lap. A few moments passed without any response. Finally, Sherlock shook his head.

John broke the seal and removed the cap. When he looked back up to Sherlock though, he was surprised to see the genuine anxiety on the man's face. His breathing had quickened and a sheen of sweat had even broke on his forehead. John realized something more was going on. Sherlock was having a potent emotional reaction to something about the situation, he wasn't just being difficult on purpose. John felt rather guilty for feeling angry with Sherlock just moments before.

John replaced the cap and put the bottle down on the table next to him. He rested his empty hands on his knees.

"Can we talk about this?" John asked.

Sherlock swallowed. He was reluctant but after a short pause, he supplied a simple answer. "I'm not comfortable with things near my eyes."

"Alright," John responded, he was being as delicate, yet direct, as he could. "I am concerned because you are clearly more than just uncomfortable about this. You are almost in full blown panic. Take a few breaths with me."

They sat together quietly, Sherlock listening to John breath slowly and deliberately in and out.

John continued, carefully and quietly. "That's a pretty bad infection, it can't feel good. I'm worried that left untreated it could damage your eyesight."

Sherlock didn't respond. 

"Can you try, for me? What if I help you?"

Still looking lost and uncertain, Sherlock's eyes darted to John, then away. He performed a slight shrug, his lips pressed together in silence.

John waited another minute or two, then rose from the coffee table and held his hand out for Sherlock. The detective sat up slowly and took the offered hand, then stood hesitantly from the couch. John gently led him into the kitchen to stand in front of the sink.

"Here, wash your hands," John instructed, leaving Sherlock there and heading up to his room to grab the saline eye drops that he used when his eyes got dry in the winter. When he returned, Sherlock was standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, holding the dishtowel in his hands. "Come here," John said motioning back to the couch. John laid down exactly where Sherlock had just been and relaxed against the pillows.

Sherlock sat on the coffee table, now their positions were reversed. John held out the bottle of saline eye drops. Sherlock just stared. John removed the cap from the bottle and picked up Sherlock's hand, putting it between his fingers. He laid his head back, looking up to the ceiling.

"Try it on me. Just put a few drops in each eye, next to the iris towards the inside."

Sherlock did as instructed.

"See, that wasn't so bad, right?"

Sherlock huffed out a deep sigh and a slight eye roll. "It's easy on other people, John," he explained. "I've dissected human eyes before, it doesn't bother me. It's different when it's my eyes."

John looked up at him. "Did something happen when you were young?"

A quick inhale and sideways flick of Sherlock's eyes told John he had just hit the proverbial nail on the head. He reached out, gently taking Sherlock's hand and giving it an unhurried squeeze. He lay still and patient, giving Sherlock the time he needed.

"Yes. I'd rather not talk about it."

"That's fine, Sherlock," John responded, "I'm not going to pressure you into talking about it. But..." John paused, waiting for Sherlock to look at him. "I want you to listen to _me_ talk. I am a very good doctor and I care about you very much. Sometimes traumatic things happen to people that lead to very strong fears and anxieties. You didn't do anything wrong and the way you're feeling right now is not your fault."

John paused as Sherlock seemed to process the words. He looked down at the saline eye drops in his hand, stroking his index finger around the cap where the ridged texture of the edge met the smooth dome of the top. 

"I want to help you, but I won't force you. Do you trust me?"

Sherlock stilled his fidgeting fingers. He glanced up to John's eyes, then away. At length he responded.

"Yes."

Having received the answer he was hoping for, John gave Sherlock an honest smile and let the moment dwell briefly before he sat up. "Alright, let's switch places, you lie here, on the couch. I'll sit on the coffee table."

Sherlock was still anxious but he followed John's direction. Reclined on the couch, he blinked up at John, the unhealthy sheen of his pink eye catching in the light. It was pretty bad.

John picked up the antibiotic eye drops from the table next to him and held the bottle up for Sherlock to see. "See, the cap is still on. Can I hold it above your eye for a second? I won't touch and then I'll take it away."

Sherlock nodded. Moving slowly, but without hesitation or fanfare, John leaned in and held the bottle, inverted, above Sherlock's eye. Sherlock inhaled sharply and reached up, grasping a handful of couch cushion in one had and John's wrist in the other. His grip was firm, but he did not push John away with any force, instead just following the motion as John reached in then withdrew. It probably made him feel a bit more secure having his hand there, that he could push John away if he wanted. The entire sequence was smooth and lasted less than a two or three seconds. 

Sherlock blinked up at him, eyes wide, with a look of anxiety and confusion. 

"How did that feel?" John asked. He could feel Sherlock's slender fingers still wrapped firmly around his wrist.

Sherlock seemed to search for words. Finally he responded. 

"A little... uncertain... but not as bad as I thought."

John gave him a reassuring smile. "Alright. Can I do it again?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"Keep your eye open," John instructed as he repeated the motion, the bottle still capped, Sherlock's grip still firm on John's wrist. Finished, he looked down at Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "This is so stupid. Why am I like this?" he blurted out in a raised voice.

"You are not defective, Sherlock. You have an anxiety and you're doing really well facing it. I'm not going anywhere. I want you to take as much time as you need."

Sherlock let go of John and crossed his arms over his chest. He huffed out a breath and stilled, obviously focused on calming himself down. John sat, waiting patiently, carefully giving Sherlock the space he needed. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock spoke. "Alright. I'm better now."

"OK, again with the cap still on?"

Sherlock nodded in agreement and they repeated the motion for the third time. Sherlock followed John's hand with a grip on his forearm, the entire action taking less than a few seconds.

"Are you ready for me to take the cap off? I promise I won't let any drops fall."

Sherlock was ready because he trusted that John would do as he promised.

"Alright," Sherlock responded.

John removed the cap and once again he repeated the motion, smooth and unhesitant.

"Again?" John asked. "No drops." 

So, again, he tipped the bottle over, careful there were no drops ready to fall, and moved the bottle over Sherlock's pink eye before taking it back and turned it upright again. He would do this a hundred times if it was what Sherlock needed.

Four more times, John asking each time, and he could see Sherlock was getting bored. _Good_ , he thought, that's what he was hoping for.

"How many drops?" Sherlock asked.

"One."

Sherlock hesitated. "Alright, I'm ready."

Without delay, John reached forward, bottle inverted, and squeezed. A single drop fell from the tip, landing on Sherlock's sick eye. The detective flinched and made a quiet sound of surprise, pressing his head back into the couch pillow, both eyes clenched shut and forming the wrinkle across the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes, looking to John with an expression of disbelief, blinking rapidly as if he was surprised something more awful didn't happen.

John smiled warmly, recapping the bottle to set it aside. "You did it, Sherlock, you did good. That was it."

Sherlock's blinks continued, causing John to smile a little more. He had seen Sherlock do this before when he was presented with new information that seemed to disagree with previous observations. John reached for Sherlock's free hand, gently unclenching his fist so he could hold Sherlock's sweaty palm.

"How often must that happen?" Sherlock asked.

"Every few hours to start."

"And you can... help?"

"Of course, Sherlock"

"You don't... mind?"

"Not at all."

"Alright. Good." Sherlock was still blinking, he seemed to be coming back to himself. He released his grip on John's hand and forearm and shuffled back up to a sitting position. 

With a brief smile and departing squeeze to the shoulder, John stood up and headed for the kitchen to give Sherlock some space and make a cup a tea for them both. He was proud of his flatmate for facing down the childhood fear, but, more so he felt pride in himself for being the one Sherlock allowed to help him with it. Sherlock Holmes, the man who wore a carefully crafted mask of confidence and uncaring at all times in public, trusted John with such a vulnerability. It really was an honor, one that John understood and respected. And if he did spend his next few days off treating Sherlock's case of pink eye every few hours, well, John really didn't mind.


End file.
